


Leningradskoye and Cookies

by ilien



Series: Celebrations [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, M/M, Some angst, St. Petersburg, Viktor had a happy childhood, Viktor has two moms, and a ridiculous Russian childhood nickname, but it gets better, modern Russian traditions, winter holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-24 07:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13209297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilien/pseuds/ilien
Summary: Viktor and Yuuri celebrate New Year with Viktor's mothers. Some things go exactly according to plan, and some don’t.





	Leningradskoye and Cookies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phayte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/gifts).



> _Leningradskoye_ is a brand of Russian ice cream—a brick of vanilla ice cream in chocolate glaze. The name means “of Leningrad”, Leningrad being the Soviet name for St. Petersburg. 
> 
> This is a Secret Satan gift for Phayte. Happy New Year!
> 
> Technically, this is a sequel to [Ptichye Moloko](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13119309), but it can definitely stand alone.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, the rings scene happened exactly the way it did on-screen, and the engagement was never seriously discussed behind the scenes. We all know that it was, so let’s consider this an AU where it wasn’t.
> 
> This has now been proofread by my amazing bff; all the remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> See end notes for explanations of some Russian stuff and a spoilery tag (that wrangling seems to mess up, anyway).

“Wake up, sleeping beauty!” It’s a bit of a stretch, but Viktor does manage to reach inside the car where Yuuri’s sleeping on the back seat, cuddled with Makkachin, and kiss Yuuri’s cheek. “We’re there!”

Yuuri’s so cute like this, rubbing his eyes with his fists, sleepy and warm, that Viktor’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve it—if he did, he’d do that again, and again, and again. Just to make sure he gets to keep it.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Look, here’s mama Sveta!”

Mama Sveta probably saw their car through the window, because now she’s outside the paradnaya door, wearing a coat over her shoulders, but only slippers on her bare feet.

Makka barks happily when she sees mama, and pushes her way out of the car past Viktor. The only thing that keeps mama Sveta standing when Makka gives her the enthusiastic greeting is the paradnaya door behind her.

Viktor helps Yuuri out of the car and notices that Yuuri’s hand is shaking. “They’re just my parents,” he tells him. “You’ve talked to them plenty of times, there’s no need to be worried.”

“That’s not—” Yuuri starts, “I’m not worried.” Could have fooled him.

Viktor pretends that he’s going to hug his mother in greeting, but instead, picks her up in his arms. “You’ll catch a cold barefoot,” he says. “Yuuri, open the door for us, please!”

“Vitya! Put me down!” mama Sveta demands, but mama Sasha would never forgive him if she caught a cold because of him.

“Zdravstvuyte, Svetlana,” Yuuri says in Russian.

“Oh, drop the ‘vy’ and the Svetlana,” mama says. “Not you, Vitya, you put me down carefully!”

“It’s ‘privet, mama Sveta,” Viktor explains as he carries his mother to the second floor, to the door of their apartment. “You’re being too official.”

“Sasha,” mama Sveta screams as the apartment door opens from the inside, “your son is misbehaving!”

Once they all get inside the apartment and close the door, Viktor puts mama Sveta down.

“It’s always ‘your son’ when he’s misbehaving and ‘our son’ when he’s being nice,” mama Sasha tells Yuuri in English. “Also, be as formal as you like if it makes you comfortable,” she adds and stretches out her hand. “Aleksandra.”

“Yuuri,” Yuuri says and shakes the offered hand. “It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“Is nobody going to comment her son just carrying me to the second floor and refusing to put me down?” mama Sveta complains, also switching to English.

“Why no one? I’m going to,” mama Sasha says helping mama Sveta take off her coat. “Well done, Vitya, I wouldn’t have done better myself.”

“Does he pick you up, too?” mama Sveta asks Yuuri. “Tell me I’m not the only one suffering!”

“Not—not unless we’re skating?” Yuuri says. Viktor thinks about it. He’s right. That’s an oversight he’s going to have to fix.

Viktor gets out of his coat and shoes and hands Yuuri a new pair of slippers. His own old ones look so familiar and strange at the same time he could cry.

“Come to the kitchen, there’s tea and pirozhki,” mama Sveta says. “Your mother baked all night.”

Yuuri nods, thanks her, and then yawns.

“Now, what did _you_ do all night?” mama Sasha asks. “Sveta! Our son is either a terrible coach or an awful boyfriend! Look at the poor boy, he’s dead on his feet!”

“You really don’t want to know what we did last night, mama,” Viktor says. “Some things mothers shouldn’t know.”

The truth is that, for once, it wasn’t Viktor’s fault—not directly, at least. Yuuri just tossed and turned and failed to sleep all night, and all Viktor’s efforts to help him relax seemed to only make it worse. Everything Viktor does these days seems to make it worse somehow.

* * *

Mama’s poppy pirozhki are the best thing in the universe. Yurio might kill him if he hears him say it out loud, but it’s the truth. Mama Sasha’s pirozhki are the best pirozhki in the world. Viktor decides that right now he can pretend he doesn’t see it’s the sixth pirozhok Yuuri’s eating in a row. They’ll just adjust his training to burn the calories and it would be totally worth it.

“They’re Svet’s favorite,” mama Sveta says. “When he was little, Sasha would bake them with everything—meat, jam, apples, berries—but Svetik would have none of that. He’d just consume all the poppy pirozhki and demand more.”

“Svet?” Yuuri asks, adorably rubbing his eyes. Viktor should have known the childhood nickname would make an appearance; why wouldn’t it, really?

“Oh,” mama Sasha says, “he didn’t tell you?”

“No, I don’t think he did,” says Yuuri.

“Mama Sveta’ in Russian sounds the same as Light’s Mama,” mama Sasha explains. “So, at some point someone mentioned that if she’s Light’s Mama, Vitya must be Light—Svet. It fits, don’t you think?”

As Yuuri passionately agrees that it does, indeed, fit, Viktor tries—and fails—not to smile the biggest smile in the world.

“See?” says mama Sveta, and kisses the top of Viktor’s head. “Svetik. Our little light.”

They have three cups of tea each and finish all the poppy pirozhki on the table (there still are some cabbage pirozhki and cinnamon buns left, but Viktor still believes that, compared to the poppy-filled ones, all of those are completely useless), then open a box of chocolates, and talk of nothing in particular. It feels like he came home from a three-day competition, not after two years of absence.

“Now go get lost,” says mama Sveta when their huge teapot is empty. “Go sleep, or show Yuuri the neighborhood, or whatever. You’re early, we’re not ready.”

“Your only son comes home after two years and you’re not ready,” Viktor complains.

“You wait for another year to come home and we’ll forget what you look like,” mama Sasha tells him. It’s unfair. He did meet take them out for dinner more than once in the past year; he just didn’t have the time to drive home. “Now go get lost. We have a birthday dinner to prepare.”

Birthday dinner is serious business, Viktor knows. Whoever has a birthday isn’t allowed anywhere in the vicinity of it until it’s ready and served—as a child, he believed it was some kind of a universal rule. Now he knows better, but still feels guilty for Yuuri’s 25th. Maybe the whole birthday fiasko is the reason why Yuuri’s been so weird recently?..

He grabs Yuuri’s hand and drags him out of the kitchen and then out of the apartment entirely. He can show Yuuri his room and the rest of the apartment later; there’s no way he’s letting his moms make Yuuri cook today _or_ telling them that he left his poor—student? Boyfriend? Fiancee?—deal with his own birthday dinner entirely by himself.

Besides, Yuuri already made him a birthday dinner as soon as he came back from the Japanese nationals two days ago. He doesn’t have to deal with it twice.

* * *

He shows Yuuri his old school, the house with an orchard where he once stole apples when he was six years old (and never got caught), the corner where his favorite ice cream stand used to be (there’s a completely different ice cream stand there now), and then takes him to the ice slide where, when Viktor was a child, the slide would go all the way to the sea, and tells him how his moms would punish him severely for going there. They were terrified he’d slide all the way into the freezing water and drown, but who cares about drowning when you’re eight and have a slide like that?

The slide isn’t there. The November snow melted the same week, and it only started snowing again two days ago; there’s still a chance the slide will be there by the end of the holidays—but for now, it’s just a seashore and a snow-covered beach. Viktor’s a little disappointed with the view—but at least, Makka isn’t. She runs to the beach barking loudly, ignoring the cold show at her feet.

“I think she misses Hasetsu,” Viktor says. “She wasn’t that fond of water before we met you, you know.”

Yuuri hums absentmindedly, like he isn’t even really there, and kicks a pebble.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks. “Are you okay? Are you homesick?”

“What?” Yuuri finally, finally looks at him. “Why are you asking? I’m fine, I’m great! I like it here!”

“You—you don’t _seem_ to like it,” Viktor says.

“Your moms are great,” Yuuri says. “You have Aleksandra’s eyes. And mama Sveta’s fashion sense.” He smiles at that.

Some other day Viktor would remark that Yuuri has no place to speak about fashion sense, lacking any himself. Now, he’s terrified of hurting him, until he figures out what’s wrong and knows how to avoid it.

He recognises a change of topic when he sees one.

“We could go to Hasetsu after the Olympics, for a few days,” he suggests. “You must miss your family. Or—” he takes a deep breath, “you can go alone, if you like?”

At that, Yuuri looks terrified. “Why would I want to go alone? Wait, would—would you like me to go?”

Viktor hurries to deny it, but the harm seems to be done; all the way home Yuuri’s even more quiet than before, fidgeting with something in his pocket and barely looking up from his feet.

* * *

Mama Sveta’s cooking is divine. Mama Sasha’s daily meals are also very good, but on the rare occasions mama Sveta gets enough time and inspiration to cook, it’s always the most amazing food in the world—Yuuri’s mother is the only other person whose cooking can rival that.

There’s kholodets, and Viktor’s favourite salads (Olivye, extra pickles and no onions, and mama’s famous crab salad that no one knows how to replicate), roast chicken and mama’s baked potatoes that never, ever turn out right for anyone but her, no matter how closely one follows her recipe.

“Here’s to the birthday boy,” says mama Sasha raising her glass. “Happy birthday, Svetik!”

“Thank you, mama,” Viktor says.

“To seeing you more often from now on,” mama Sveta adds just when they’re about to drink.

“To the parents,” Viktor says when mama Sasha fills their glasses again.

“I’ll drink to that,” mama Sasha says. “To my beautiful wife!”

“Mine is better,” mama Sveta objects. They do that every time.

“You’re both really amazing,” Yuuri tells them, and Viktor has never loved him more.

“You know,” mama Sveta says to Yuuri, putting her empty glass on the table, “the time when on Vitya's birthdays we could make his every dream come true and take care of the rest on New Years is long past. Now we’re deep into the ‘what do you give a man who has everything’ territory. So,” she turns to Viktor, “just—indulge your elderly parents and pretend you like at least some of it, okay?”

“Never!” Viktor says, grabbing the box from mama Sasha’s hands. “I know I’m going to love all of it!”

He isn’t lying. Of course, the contents of the box will never live up to the dog collar he found there when he turned twelve, but they’ve never ever been disappointing. Maybe it’s the magic of the box.

“Come, Yuuri, open it with me,” he demands.

When Yuuri joins him on the sofa, Viktor carefully unwraps the orange paper, opens the box, and shakes its contents on the duvet.

“Are those—mandarins?” Yuuri asks, puzzled.

“They are!” Viktor says, grabbing one of them and peeling it eagerly. “They’re the most important part!”

“Our child has cheap tastes,” mama Sasha says. “As long as there are mandarins, it’s a good birthday.”

“When he was six and learned that ‘orange’ is the English word both for the color and for the fruit, he started insisting that his box isn’t orange, it’s mandarin,” mama Sveta says.

Viktor still calls it ‘mandarin box’ in his head, but abstains from commenting in favour of stuffing half of the mandarin in his mouth. He hands the other half to Yuuri.

“And he’s also making progress,” mama Sasha remarks. “He used to eat them whole.”

Viktor takes his time savoring the taste, and only then replies. “I don’t accept accusations from a woman who eats lemons.”

“What’s wrong with lemons?” Yuuri asks.

“She peels them. And eats them like they’re oranges.”

The expression Yuuri’s trying and failing to suppress at the image is hilarious.

“Look at your gifts before we take them from you,” mama Sveta tells him. Viktor thinks it's sensible to obey.

There’s a poodle lollypop, a handful of chocolate candies, a pair of thick wool socks, a chocolate gold medal, and—Yuuri squeals as he sees what it is.

“Where did you—” Yuuri says when Viktor beats him to the small transparent package. “How did you—”

“Mama, it’s beautiful,” Viktor says, pressing the box to his chest. “Beautiful!”

It’s a figurine of Yuuri, in a costume that Viktor recognises from the recordings of Yuuri’s old performances. It’s adorable.

“We thought—Yuuri has a collection of you. It’s high time you started your own.”

Viktor already has. He’s got all the posters that were issued in the past year, but Yuuri refuses to let him put them up.

“I didn’t know those were ever sold outside—” Yuuri says, blushing up to his ears.

“Wait a minute,” Viktor interrupts him. “How do you know? That Yuuri has a collection?”

“Why, but from Yuuri’s mother, of course!” mama Sasha says.

“You can’t expect us to leave our son in the hands of a stranger, can you?” adds mama Sveta.

“And my mother helped you find it?” Yuuri asks.

“Oh no, of course not,” mama Sveta says. “Your mother is a busy woman. We asked Minako.”

“Yuuri, it’s a conspiracy,” says Victor, but doesn’t let go of his present. “Those women are evil.” He dreads to imagine what else, apart from Yuuri’s poster collection and Viktor’s birthday, the mothers talked about. Between the four of them, they probably know everything there is to know about him and Yuuri. He isn’t quite sure if it’s disturbing or comforting—probably both.

* * *

After Viktor unfolds the sofa that’s now in the place of his childhood bed, his old room barely has any space left. The only way to get to his old desk, that’s now been converted into mama Sasha’s workshop, is to climb over the bed.

Yuuri does just that, and, despite Viktor’s fears, he’s fast asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

In his sleep, Yuuri’s clinging to him for dear life. Viktor muses that it can’t be a bad sign; whatever it is he did to chase Yuuri into his shell again couldn’t have been that bad if he’s still holding on to him in his sleep.

Viktor stays awake for a little while, watching Yuuri sleep and listening to the soft sounds of his childhood home and Yuuri sleeping in it. Somehow, having Yuuri here for a few days feels more profound than the entire endeavour of him moving in to Viktor’s own huge empty apartment. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

* * *

He wakes up to the smell of something delicious cooking. It’s daybreak and the lazy grey light is seeping through the curtains; they didn’t care to close them all the way last night. Yuuri’s still sleeping with his head on Viktor’s chest.

He carefully disentangles himself and paddles to the kitchen to check out the smell.

“I walked Makka,” mama Sasha informs him without looking up from the stove. “Put your slippers on, you’ll catch a cold.”

“Nah, it might wake Yuuri,” he tells her and steals a syrnik from the plate. The hot raisin in it burns his tongue, and his mother glances at him, but it’s totally worth it.

“So, he’s a night owl, too?” mama asks and slaps his hand lightly as he reaches for another syrnik.

Viktor takes the syrnik, anyway, and hums. “He oversleeps everything, all the time. We almost missed a plane half a dozen times and skipped last-minute training twice.”

“Uh-uh. I’ll pretend that’s the only reason why.”

“Mama!”

“Svetik.” Mama suddenly stops smiling. “Are you happy?”

“Of course I am,” Viktor says and smiles his best smile. “Why do you even ask?”

“That,” mama points at his face, “is exactly why. Do you think I can’t tell a fake smile from a real one? I _taught_ you that smile.”

“Now, that’s a lie,” Viktor tries. “You taught me all the real ones. The fake one is from mama Sveta. She’s the one in the big money business!” She owns a small advertising agency. Same difference.

“Vitya,” mama says. “Really. When I last saw you in October, you looked so happy. What’s up with you?”

He tells her everything. How Yuuri was injured and how he looked fine at first; how they both agreed it would be better for him to skip some of the competitions in favour of training for the Olympics, and how it all seemed to go downhill from there—or, at least, that’s the only explanation he can think of. How Yuuri’s been withdrawn, how he looks like he’s up to something, but never says what it is. How Yuuri’s been deliberately adjusting his training schedule so that Viktor can’t be there.

How he’s terrified Yuuri’s going to pack and leave one day without even telling him what’s wrong, because that’s the way he seems to do things—bottle it up until he can’t handle it anymore. He thought they were making progress. He thought they were fine, great, even—and then this.

“Strange,” mama says pensively, “Hiroko never mentioned anything. She seems to be under the impression that Yuuri’s very happy here with you.”

“I told you, mama. He doesn’t talk about it. She’d never know.”

“Now, that’s bullshit. A mother always knows. Well—not every mother. But Hiroko would.”

“Maybe they haven’t been able to talk much recently,” Viktor suggests but realizes it’s not true before he’s finished speaking. Yuuri Skypes his parents at least twice a week, and he’s literally just come back from Japan.

“You know what?” mama says. “There was this one time when your mother was acting completely out of character. She’d make strange phone calls. She’d have intense discussions with her best friend and change the topic when I’d come in. She’d start writing something in her notebook, then pause and chew on her pen until the pen was completely ruined. I was terrified. When I found out one of her calls was to a lawyer, I completely panicked.”

“A lawyer?” Mamas never considered a divorce. He’d know.

“Uh-uh.”

“And? Did you ever find out what it was?” Evidently they got through it all right.

Mama smiles. A real smile, not the fake one.

“What?” he demands.

“The lawyer was specializing in adoption. She was looking into hospitals, donors, adoptions—everything and anything that could help us have a baby. She wanted to gather as much information as possible before she came to me with it.”

“Oh.”

“No, listen. I had this entire story built in my head. How I did something awful and ruined everything. How this thing I did, and that thing I said, and that trip to Yalta that summer and me graduating a year early when she still hadn’t, and—everything I could think of, how all of it lead to her wanting a divorce. And then it turned out it was nothing even close to that. Good thing I hadn’t yet started coming to terms with it, right?”

“How can you come to terms with something like that?”

“I have no idea,” mama says seriously, “but a lot of people do that. And if you have to, you will. Just don’t take a headstart, okay? Give him time. Find the right questions.” She puts the last batch of syrniki on the plate and turns off the stove.

“Okay. A baby, I can deal with,” Viktor promises. “Yuuri will make a great father!”

“Vitya. You’re getting ahead of yourself again. There still are some more steps between here and there.”

He waves his hand dismissively and grabs another syrnik.

“I have a feeling that if our sleepyheads sleep a little more, they’ll have to make their own breakfast. Although I’m not sure that can stop your mother from sleeping in. Even you couldn’t do that, and I wish you heard yourself scream at three months old! You’d wake the entire building. Except for your own mother.”

“Lies and slander,” says mama Sveta from the door. She comes in and steals a syrnik for herself. “Don’t listen to a word she says, Svetik, you were a perfect baby.”

“With extremely healthy lungs,” mama Sasha insists. “Leave some syrniki for breakfast.”

“And go put on some slippers,” says mama Sveta.

* * *

Yuuri wakes up just as Viktor finishes assembling the New Year tree. He comes in, barefoot, yawning, with the most adorable case of bedhead ever, and rubs his eyes as he sees the tree.

“I thought there wouldn’t be a tree.”

Last year, Viktor completely failed at showing Yuuri the proper Russian traditions. After all the training, and the competitions, and then training again, and keeping Yakov happy and Yura less annoyed and the press satisfied, he barely had the energy to pick up a nice gift an pre-order a decent dinner; decorating the tree was too much effort.

This year, everything’s completely different.

“It’s New Year!” he tells Yuuri. “You can’t have New Year without a tree!”

“It’s December, 30,” Yuuri says. “I’m pretty sure somewhere in the world some people are putting away their Christmas trees.”

“We don’t usually decorate until after Vitya’s birthday,” mama Sasha explains. “There was this one year when Vitya didn’t get back from his competitions until December, 31, and Sveta worked until the very last minute. We didn’t have time to decorate for the New Year—so, we decorated for the Old New Year.”

Damn. That’s what he should have done last year, instead of just pretending they didn’t need holidays when there were medals to be won.

“We saved you some syrniki,” mama Sveta says. “You’ve tried them before, right?”

“Mama! He’s been living in Russia for a year,” Viktor complains. “Of course he tried syrniki!”

Their diets are thoroughly ruined—and there’s New Year coming, still.

Yuuri sides with mama Sasha in the Decoration Box Discourse. Mama Sasha believes that the horrible dirty old cardboard box that holds all the ornaments should remain, because it’s part of the holiday. Viktor and mama Sveta think that they need to get another box—a beautiful plastic one that would look more festive and wouldn’t threaten to spill its delicate glass contents each time it gets as much as looked at. Up until today, mama Sasha was outnumbered, but for some reason, the box still remained. Now they’re in a tie, and the box is definitely here to stay.

Together, they put all of the ornaments from the box on the tree. Objectively, Viktor knows that his artistic sense should be rebelling against the outrageous mixture of colors and sparkling—but it doesn’t. It never does at the sight of the New Year tree.

* * *

The local ice rink (well, not really that local, seeing that it’s one of the biggest ice rinks in St. Petersburg) is mostly meant for hockey teams, but Viktor manages to reserve it for the two of them for several hours a day. It’s large and of pretty decent quality; it’s a pity it wasn’t there when Viktor was growing up, and he had to take the train to the rink every day after school—a whole hour each way. Now, the new rink is five minute’s walk from home.

As they stroll towards the rink, Viktor can practically hear Yuuri’s anxiety rising. Just a few minutes ago at home he was happy and relaxed, listening to mamas’ stories about all the ornaments and joining in on the family argument about New Year traditions—and now he’s biting the inside of his cheek and staring absently at his own feet. As they keep walking, he visibly loses interest in Viktor’s chatter, now lost deep in his thought.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “I can see you’re upset. What can I do to help you?”

At some point, Viktor thought Yuuri was getting better at asking for what he wants, and Viktor was getting better at being a good coach and boyfriend, and giving him what he needs. “Give me a hug”, “Just talk about anything”, “I’m worried about my spins”, and even “Shut up and let me think” weren’t rare answers to Viktor’s offers of help, and Viktor—or at least so he thought—managed to do okay, most of the time. They were flying blind in this beautiful mess of their relationship, but he felt like they were making progress, and a lot of it.

Now, he’s not that sure. “I’m not upset,” Yuuri says without even looking at him. “I’m fine.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor insists, remembering his mother’s reassurances, “I can see something’s not right. I want to help you. Just tell me what to do.”

“I’m okay,” Yuuri insists. “Do you think we can swap some jumps in my SP? I’ve been having some thoughts, and I think it can be better.”

“There’s always room for improvement.” Viktor helplessly gives in to the diversion. “What do you have in mind?”

At the rink, Yuuri manages to pull himself together and do really well—even a little too well, in Viktor’s opinion. He skates like it’s the last public rehearsal and the Olympics start tonight. When Viktor goes on to running through his own routines, Yuuri doesn’t offer any advice—he doesn’t even watch. Instead, he skates to the other side of the rink and works on his spins there, on his own. That's probably one of the reasons why Viktor's own jumps are so messy, but, luckily, Yakov isn't there to yell at him.

After the practice, Viktor discovers eighteen texts from his mothers, each containing one to three items for last-minute shopping. _“The peas aren’t good enough, get another brand.” “Get some fresh tomatoes. Don’t forget the cheese.” “Oh, and some garlic, we’re running out.” “Your mama’s being an ass, get her some chocolates from me.” “When you get the cake, pay attention to the expiration date.”_ They take the car and spend a couple of hours at a crowded department store, picking up the garlic, and the peas, and the tomatoes—and some sour cream, because everyone always forgets the sour cream. When Yuuri’s not looking, Viktor picks up a small box of chocolates for him, too. If it works for mamas when they’re arguing, there’s no harm in trying.

By the time they’re out of the store, Yuuri’s back to being relaxed and cheerful. They take their purchases home and go for a walk with Makka; there’s are still a lot of things in the neighborhood Viktor hasn’t shown Yuuri. This time he takes him to the park and they check out the large hole in the fence everyone waltzes in though after the park closes for the night.

The fence is completely different from what Viktor remembers; it’s new and pretty now—but the hole is in its old place. This is the fourth fence, and the fourth hole Viktor has witnessed in his lifetime, and Yuuri looks genuinely amused when Viktor tells him the story of how he watched someone successfully bribe the construction workers who made one of the fences to make it with a built-in hole.

“Why don’t they just make a gate here?” Yuuri asks, puzzled.

“Oh no,” Viktor replies, feigning outrage. “Then we’d have to make a hole in the gate!”

When they come home, mamas are in the middle of baking wholesale amounts of cookies.

“We're so not going to make it in time,” mama Sveta says. “And I didn’t put enough gelatin in zalivnoye. It won’t take.”

“She says that every time,” Victor tells Yuuri in Japanese. “It’s a magical phrase. It only turns out alright if you say it.”

“And we’ve yet to start on the salads,” mama Sasha says, ignoring him. “And someone needs to peel the potatoes.”

“We’re here, we’ll help,” Viktor says.

“Here, cut the cookies then,” mama Sveta demands.

It’s a new tradition, one that wasn’t there when Viktor was a child. He doesn’t quite get it. At some point during the New Year preparation (the point gets chosen at random, as far as Viktor can tell) mamas drop everything and make cookies. While complaining loudly that they won’t be able to finish everything on time. Despite the fact that there’s cake, pie, ice cream, pirozhki, and that no one eats dessert on the New Year’s night, anyway.

There’s absolutely no reasoning with them, so, Viktor grabs the cookie cutters. He knows there should be—yes.

A few minutes later, while Yuuri’s still enjoying using the Makka-shaped cutter, a whole sheet of little piglet cookies go into the oven.

When it’s time for dinner, they’re almost done making the salads—and cookies, already baked, are left to cool on mama’s desk. No one is allowed to eat anything they made for New Year, so, they prepare an ordinary low-calorie dinner that, for a change, fits perfectly in their hopelessly ruined meal plan. Or would have, if not for the tray of slightly burnt cookies making its way to the dinner table.

Yuuri sleeps soundly for the second night in a row—that, in itself, is a small miracle.

* * *

When Viktor wakes up, everyone’s still asleep—so, he gets dressed trying to make as little noise as possible and starts the last day of the year with a nostalgic run with Makkachin. Makka runs ahead of him, following the familiar route they used to take every day when they still lived with mamas, and Viktor muses on how much things remain the same while managing to change entirely.

On their way back home, overcome with nostalgia, Viktor buys an ice cream and savors it, lightly seasoned with the falling snow, the rest of the way. Leningradskoye doesn’t seem to taste the same as it used to, but it’s good enough.

At home, everyone’s already awake and busy with breakfast; that’s fortunate, because their rink time starts early today, and now Yuuri doesn’t have to suffer through a forced awakening and a rushed breakfast.

On the way to the rink, Viktor observes the same transformation he witnessed yesterday. Yuuri leaves home cheerful, smiling at mamas and full of life, but by the time they get to their destination he’s even more grim and withdrawn than he was yesterday.

Viktor makes him go to the gym first; he has to admit, at least to himself, that it’s part honest coaching advice (gym time is important) and part pettiness: Yuuri hates the gym enough that unplanned gym time usually elicits at least some kind of response, and at this point everything would be better than this silence.

The response isn’t exactly what Viktor counted on; instead of getting mock-angry or actually upset, Yuuri looks—relieved. As if he dreads his ice practice so much he’d rather do a whole day of boring exercises instead.

* * *

“Is it the Salchow?” he tries when they’re done with the gym.

“Is—what the Salchow?” Yuuri asks.

“You being—” he waves his hand, unable to express what he’s being. “Is that because you’re stressed that your injury messed up your Salchow?”

“I’m not being anything,” Yuuri says. “And the Salchow’s getting better, isn’t it?”

“Your last one yesterday was almost perfect. That’s why I don’t get it. Look at you. You’re terrified.”

Yuuri’s hands are shaking, just a little. No one else would notice it; Yuuri’s getting better at controlling this; but Viktor knows him. That’s how he acts before big competitions these days: visibly calm, but completely withdrawn. And his hands shake just enough for Viktor to notice.

“I’m—”

“Don’t finish it.” Suddenly Viktor’s barely containing his annoyance.

“What?”

“You were going to say you’re not terrified. Don’t you think I know you well enough? You’ve been acting strange for weeks; do you seriously think I didn’t notice? You don’t want to talk about it; fine, it’s your right. But don’t tell me you’re fine when you very obviously aren’t.”

“Vitya, I—” Yuuri rarely calls him ‘Vitya’. It’s ‘Viktor’ most of the time, and ‘Vicchan’ when they’re speaking Japanese, but the Russian nickname is reserved for special occasions.

Viktor grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything. It’s just a name, it shouldn’t hurt so much that it’s used now, of all times.

Yuuri takes a couple of deep breaths, like he’s bracing himself before stepping on the ice. “Let’s go,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

Viktor watches him helplessly as he puts his skates on, then laces his own skates; might as well.

Yuuri makes a few circles around the rink to warm up, and then skates to Viktor and hands him a phone with headphones. “Turn this on when I take position, okay?” he asks.

Victor’s complicated mixture of emotions gives way to curiosity. He does as he’s told.

* * *

The moment Viktor hears the first chords, Yuuri starts moving. Viktor knows that Yuuri can’t hear the music, but that never makes any difference to him; a few seconds into the performance Viktor can swear, that, even if he took off the headphones right now, he would be able to hear the music despite never having heard the melody before.

Yuuri’s movements are gentle and precise. Viktor can see that this isn’t a routine created to show off his jumps—or technical skills of any kind, for that matter. It’s not a sequence made for competition; it’s not even an exhibition piece created to entertain the audience. It’s a personal, deeply intimate message intended for Viktor alone.

The music reminds Viktor of _Yuri on Ice_ , but only in that it’s written by the same composer for the same person; some of the intonations are similar, but some are completely different; it’s more dynamic and more lyrical at the same time; it’s captivating, enchanting.

Half a minute into the routine Viktor knows it for what it is: a love confession. Louder than any words Yuuri could use, even though there have been a lot of words over the past two years.

A minute into the story Yuuri’s telling, Viktor’s overcome with joy. Yuuri loves him. Yuuri prepared this amazing gift to tell him he loves him.

Another half a minute later, he thinks it’s probably—almost definitely—a marriage proposal.

Two minutes into the routine, he remembers the last two times he thought Yuuri was proposing—both times, it turned out he was saying goodbye. No. No-no-no-no.

For his birthday, Yuuri got him a tiny gold pendant. From the looks of it, Yuuri had a jeweler make a pendant out of three charms—a tiny gold ring, a snowflake, and a medal—and put it on a chain. Yuuri told him that the pedant was ready and waiting when Yuuri got a gold charm bracelet from Viktor for his birthday. Viktor hasn’t even once taken off the gift since he got it.

Now, as Yuuri finishes his skate, Viktor clutches the pedant through his t-shirt. He misread everything again. Yuuri’s trying to—

“Viktor?” Yuuri says, skating closer. His voice is shaking. “Are you crying?”

Of course he’s fucking crying.

“You want to break up with me, don’t you?”

“What?!” Yuuri shouts, “Why would you—didn’t you see what I just—”

“What did you just, Yuuri?” He can’t quite let himself hope just yet, but there’s a chance—probably, a small chance—that he misread everything the other way around this time.

Yuuri takes some calming breaths again. “Viktor,” he says. “There’s a chance I may never win gold outside of the Nationals—shh,” he says as Viktor tries to protest, “let me talk.

“I might not win gold. I might get injured again, more seriously this time, and not win anything at all. I’ve yet to live up to your expectations,” Viktor swallows his protest again, “and I might never do that. But—I don’t want our future to depend on it. If you don’t want me unless I win—” he makes a visible effort to say that, and it takes everything Viktor has to stay quiet, “that’s fine. I can live with that. Probably. But—Vitya. If you do want me, injuries and failures and all—will you—Will you allow me to come here with you, and make New Year cookies with your mamas, every year for the rest of our lives? I don’t have another ring, but—” He picks up the jacket he discarded earlier and gets something out of its pocket.

It’s his gold medal, from the Japanese nationals. He offers it to Viktor, silently, holding it out with two hands, and waits, the look of complete horror all over his beautiful face.

For a second there, Viktor has no idea what to say. So many things happened in so little time that his brain, apparently, needs the time to catch up.

When it does, Viktor takes the medal from Yuuri, hangs it, ignoring Yuuri’s bewildered expression, over Yuuri’s neck, and then picks Yuuri up and whirls him around. “My Yuuri!” he cries. “You never cease surprising me!”

“Is that—a good surprise?” Yuuri asks, looking down at Viktor where he’s holding him up.

“Of course it’s a good surprise, a great one, the best!” Viktor insists. They’ll need to talk about everything he went through over the past month, but—not today. “Of course I’ll marry you!”

“Yeah?” Yuuri’s so adorably shy all of a sudden.

Viktor puts him down only to embrace him again. “Of course, yes!”

Yuuri kisses him then. His lips are salty and sweet at the same time, and he smells like sweat and vanilla cookies. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until someone comes in and reminds them their rink time is out.

* * *

Outside, it’s snowing again, like the weather’s trying to make up for the snowless December and provide enough snow for it to be a perfect New Year. For Viktor it’s already perfect. He talks Yuuri into taking a walk; he doesn’t want to share his fiancé—His! Fiancé!—with anyone just yet.

They go to the distant part of the park, away from the celebrating crowd, and wander aimlessly, stopping to kiss every minute or so, and then take their time making a perfect snowman: almost as tall as Yuuri, with stones for eyes and twigs for arms. Yuuri looks at the finished work, shakes his head and, builds a snowdog at the snowman’s feet. “Everyone needs a dog,” he offers in explanation.

It’s almost seven when they decide it’s time to go home. Oddly enough, mamas don’t send them a single message asking for a very-last-minute shopping run; probably they’ve finally, after all these years, managed to remember everything yesterday.

They stop by a grocery on their way home, anyway—to fetch a baguette for caviar appetizers and buy ice cream to eat as they walk. It’s Viktor’s second ice cream today, but it’s not his fault that ice cream is the only thing missing from the perfect walk; he doesn’t make the rules.

When they enter the paradnaya, Viktor can smell mama’s cherry pie from the first floor. The whole building probably smells like cherry pie, and isn’t it the best smell ever?

* * *

He opens the apartment door with his key, then follows Yuuri in—and stumbles on a pair of soaked leopard print sneakers.

“Oi, morons,” the owner of the offending footwear yells, “where have you two been? It’s eight o’clock, I had to walk your stupid mutt _and_ go buy the mayo you forgot yesterday!”

“Yurio!” Viktor yells, overjoyed, and hugs Yurka with enthusiasm. “It’s so good to see you! Yurio, we’re getting married!”

“What?” Yurka makes a face. “Get your hands off me, I’m not marrying you!”

“I’m marrying Yuuri!” Viktor says, ignoring the protests. “Yuuri and I are getting married! He proposed, can you believe that?”

“What, again? Is that, like, a yearly tradition now, or something? You’ll look like your stupid New Year tree with that fuckload of rings.”

“There weren’t any more rings, and this time it’s for real, Yurka, I’m so happy!” he says, still clinging to Yuri and shaking him, just a little.

“Mama Sasha!” Yuri yells, “Your son’s gone insane, take him off me!”

“It’s okay,” mama Sasha says, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on her apron, “we love him even insane.”

“Mama!” Viktor cries, lets Yura go and hugs mama instead. “You were right! Mama, we’re getting married!”

“Svetka, did you hear that?” mama yells. “Our baby’s all grown up! He’s getting married! Give it another decade and he’ll give up eating ice cream before breakfast!”

“Kids are growing up, we are growing old,” mama Sveta says, wiping an imaginary tear. “Is it too much to hope he’ll learn to wear slippers at home?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid that is too much,” mama Sasha says, and Viktor lets her go, outraged.

“I’m bringing great news and this is all you have to say?”

“Svetik-solnyshko,” mama Sveta says with a sigh, “you’re the only one in this room who thinks this is news. ‘I’m planning a proposal’ was written all over Yuuri’s face in lettersthis big,” she spreads her hands to demonstrate the size of the letters.

Yuuri’s blushing and trying hard not to look at anyone.

"You’re an idiot, Katsudon,” Plisetsky says. “You could do so much better. Like, _so_  much better. Don’t come crying to me when this asshole forgets to show up at your wedding.”

“Yurio, you’re so mean!” Viktor complains.

“Yeah, okay,” Yura gives up suddenly. “Congrats, assholes. Please get married in Japan, the ceremonies here are fucking stupid.”

“Yes, please, get married in Japan,” mama Sveta says. “I want to see Hasetsu!”

* * *

“But anyway,” Viktor asks when they’ve finished setting the table, “it’s not that I’m not happy to see you, but aren’t you supposed to be in Moscow with your grandpa?”

“Yeah, no. He’s in Siberia, shoveling the snow.”

“What, all of it?” Viktor quotes.

“Yes, all of it,” smirks Yuri and then grimaces at Yuuri’s confused face. “You idiot still haven’t shown him _Formula of Love_? What the fuck have you been doing the whole year?”

“Really, Vitya, I’m disappointed,” mama Sasha says and turns to Yuuri. “They just quoted one of the best Soviet movies. You really have to see it, it’s important to know such things.” With that, she gets up and leaves the room, obviously looking for something.

“So, Nikolai isn’t really in Siberia?” Yuuri asks, confused.

“He is. He’s gone to Tomsk, to celebrate with my mother. And I hate Siberia, so I didn’t go.” He’s also not on best terms with his mother, as far as Viktor knows. That’s not really a holiday topic.

“Their loss, our gain,” mama Sveta says and hugs Yurka. He’s grown taller lately, and outgrown her by a good couple of centimeters already, Viktor notices. He hugs her back—so, probably, his growth hasn’t been just physical.

Mama Sasha returns to the room, bearing an old DVD box. “Here.” She says and turns on the DVD. “We have just enough time before midnight for the first part.”

“Thank you, Aleksandra,” Yuuri says, always polite.

“It’s Aleksandra Olegovna for you, pig,” Yurka grunts.

“You know what?” mama Sasha muses, “Yura’s right. I changed my mind about formalities. No child of mine is allowed to call me by my full name. It’s mama Sasha, okay?”

“I’m—pretty sure that’s not what Yurio said,” Yuuri mumbles; visibly embarrassed even though his own mother made a similar statement to Viktor months ago.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” mama Sveta reassures him. “Say it with me: mama Sasha.”

“Mama Sasha,” Yuuri repeats obediently.

“That’s more like it, Yurochka,” mama Sasha praises.

Yurka chokes on his caviar baguette.

* * *

They watch the first part of _Formula of Love_ , then turn the TV on and mock _Goluboy Ogonyok_  while waiting for the president’s speech. Mamas argue six minutes before the Kuranty, but manage to reconcile while the president’s still speaking.

There are gifts, and champagne. Yurka bites off the heads of all piglet cookies and stacks headless pigs in a neat pile, and then accidentally brushes them off the table and breaks two wine glasses and a plate trying to catch them. Viktor offers a cookie to his Yuuri figurine, but someone steals it when he isn’t looking. In the first hours of the year they finish watching _Formula of Love_ , and Yuuri tries translating some of the best phrases into Japanese.

Mila texts them, Gosha calls, and Yakov says they’re all idiots when they call to wish him a happy New Year. Mamas complain that too little food gets eaten, but of course no one has room for dessert, even after they all take a walk to watch the fireworks.

Makka doesn’t enjoy the fireworks, but kind of enjoys the cheerful friendly crowd, while Yuuri and Yurka enjoy the fireworks, but don’t care much for the crowd. At some point, Viktor asks Yurka to be his best man, and then thinks that later, explaining himself to Chris, he’ll have to blame it on the champagne.

Last year was a good year, no doubt, but if it’s true that how you celebrate the New Year is how you’ll spend it, the year that just started is going to be much, much better.

**Author's Note:**

> The story features a marriage proposal. If it's not your thing, beware.
> 
> In Russia, New Year plays pretty much the same parts as both Christmas and New Year in most western countries: it’s a family holiday that’s celebrated with a lot of unhealthy food for most people, and a social holiday to celebrate with a bunch of friends for some of the younger Russians. The main event of the holiday (at least, in the parts of the country that’s in the Moscow time zone; in some other time zones it’s a little different) is the chime of Kuranty—the Spasskaya tower clock in Kremlin—that gets broadcast on most TV channels at midnight.
> 
>  _‘Paradnaya’_ is a Russian word for the door at the entrance to an apartment building and the staircase in such building. This particular word is Peterburgian; Muscovites use a different word for the same thing.
> 
>  _‘Goluboy Ogonyok’_ \- ‘The Little Blue Light’ - is a TV program that’s mostly known these days to be the New Year program on Channel 1. It features a lot of badly dressed and pretty ridiculous pop stars; pretty much the same group of people for the past several decades. Back when there were only three and a half channels on TV, _Goluboy Ogonyok_ was the most popular New Year entertainment, but now, most people watch it just to make fun of it.
> 
> Viktor’s mothers live in a neighborhood that’s technically a part of St. Petersburg, but it’s rather far from the city center, and it can take quite a while to get there because of the traffic. It’s based on a real place, but I don’t know the real place well enough to confidently say it’s exactly as I described—so, let’s say it’s a made-up place somewhere not far from Peterhof.


End file.
